"introduces" poems
he introduces himself
saying quiet, but slipping in, firm:
“something he knows for sure,
no is no”
I, (19, f)
replying, smiling
saying louder, firmer:
“something she knows for sure,
yes is yes”
and he says
“yes, ma’am,”
returning her smile, so shyly,
while blushing, so loudly,
thinking he said something dumb,
looking down at his shuffling feet,
covered in worn out cowboy boots
I like this guy
I like this man.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because the last time I opened up to someone artistically they told me it was pretty dark and I should keep it to myself.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because I was raised in a culture that was anti love and pro meaningless *** I saw endless commercials about movies that glamorize a lifestyle in which your body is fulfilled but your heart is ignored and at that impressionable age I learned my heart came second but my allure came first and the less I cared that happier I would be and I carried that belief around with me the way I used to carry around a Bible as a child.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because of the time that I opened my father’s phone to reveal a family secret I would hold to this day against my own moral instincts unraveling miles of insecurities wondering if I’m not a good enough daughter or if he stopped loving my mother or if true love was never real and although I had been taught marriage was my purpose, it was what I believed would make me happy, maybe rings aren’t enough to stay in love and maybe people’s feelings change and maybe no one actually has a “one true love” and that this purpose I had been taught was really an endless wild goose chase that only lead to broken families and lost souls.
I can’t write this poem
I can’t write this poem because sometimes I still wonder why I fell into an abyss of toxicity at such a young age. And when I say wonder I don’t mean a trivial ponder, I mean I contemplate every possible reason why the person who I once believed held the universe in her eyes would lie to my face, why she never kissed me in public and our love was always a secret, why she valued girls with blue hair but my blonde hair was not good enough, why I had to hide bruises from my family when I was still in high school or more importantly, why at the time, I thought I deserved them. These thoughts, this lingering paranoia that I am undeserving of healthy love, they muddy my interpretations of real life and distort reality and effect my relationships. My doctor would call these intrusive thoughts, my best friend would tell me they’re symptoms of PTSD, but I have come to realize that I’ve been burned and I am damaged and I hope to god I can recover.
But you,
Oh god, you
You can write this poem. You can be my safety net while I’m free falling in love. You can be the one to listen to my mental tilt-a-whirls, you can be the one that introduces my body and my heart, you can be the one that calms the storms in my mind when I’m questioning the love I’m deserving of. You are the one who makes sure I fall asleep in my bed after drunk nights, you are the one that still sees my value after acknowledging my flaws.
You can write this poem.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
imagine an underground network of rapists preying
on tourist & local girls; having an agreement w/
the pimps & cops [same]; the tourist guides
leading the ladies of all types, mostly young,
stupid & white - blonde is better; local girls
hitting puberty, getting dragged into the den
at twelve get a choice, if they live; the dens filled
w/ liquor & drugs; partying a little or just jumping
her, dragging her to the open floor;
she wakes up naked, thankfully not dead, her
purse nearby; she goes to meet her new Desi
bf at the bazaar where he introduces her
to his friends; that night the same thing
happens; it happens for a week then a month,
then she helps the gang get other girls into it;
it goes on all summer, & on into another summer,
the winter filled w/ hot springs & expensive dates
on the paved side of the street; Bollywood stars
in American cars paying her **** who pays her
coyote who pays the cop to get her to Europe on a
tourist visa to work an exclusive Parisian Brothel
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform. Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.
Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings. No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.
We rid them of their troubles.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
I am unsure of the geology
of where you’re from.
I expect there exists
shelves and sheaths
pale grey-yellow
like serum in the blood
and rocks resembling
sun-weathered lobster
carapaces.
all of this enclosed by
a festoon of green pine—
its regalia cut sonic
and naked
wrung and wrung again
by august.
on the edge
a cabin is hemmed on
the skirt of ocean—
spikes of molding logs
propped and resting
akimbo.
a wave comes in.
a wave goes out.
a wave stays to shake
your hand.
introduces itself as
sensate verge
and wonderment.
home.
I can only imagine what
it is for you.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Her hands are shaking.
Trembling, trembling as the box moves closer to her reach.
Her heart is racing just as fast as she used to everyday after school when she ran from the school bullies.
Her heart is pumping blood just as her wrists do after she introduces them to a blade.
Her heart is slowly being mended just like the reconciliation of her relationship with her psychotic sister.
Her hands are shaking so bad she can't make out the outline of them in this dimly-lit room.
The candle light ricochets off the walls.
All she can think about is how he has stood beside her this whole time.
The room smells of cigarettes, which reminds her of the first time she met him.
That night at the corner liquor store where she went after her grandad died.
Trying to drown the pain by drowning herself in
pills and alcohol.
She was approached by a man who smelt of death who tried to steal her money, and if he got any further, her virginity.
Just as the man went to put his hands on her, the boy stepped up and protected her.
That trend continued for years as he protected not only her, but their love as well.
She knew she had finally found something worth loving truly for.
No more hiding who she truly was behind drugs, lies, and a noose hung ready in her closet.
She realized that he made her complete.
She'd walk to the end of the earth for him and he'd crawl with broken legs all the world around to see her.
But as the bills piled high and the eviction notices multiplied by the hundreds, they didn't know how to move on.
She turned back to the drugs and the pills as she knew she was drowning,
Drowning deeper and deeper.
Waiting to feel his hand plunge deep in the water to save her life.
And he'd do it every time.
She realized that he took her sky high with his love.
This would soon overcome all her addictions, leaving her only addicted to his love.
She could barely breathe as her hands touched the box.
By now she was surprised they hadn't fallen off from trembling,
Trembling so much.
As she opened the box, her breath rapidly started to leave her body.
She could feel herself going numb.
She couldn't speak.
As he pulled the ring from the box, her body shook more and more from excitement and shock.
He asked for her hand in marriage, and she started to cry with joy.
After they kissed he whispered, "You've always been my addiction."
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
This spiteful poem has no title.
That doesn't mean it's not entitled to a title
it just means, it hasn't got one.
It's not in any way vital to title
a poem is it?
Without a title, would a rival thieve
the poem?
Without a title, it means there is no
subject matter. Does that matter?
I guess at a recital a title helps,
it introduces the poem to an audience.
Let's face it, the poem is not going to get
suicidal if I don't give it a title!
It's not going to go all homicidal, suicidal,
or self harm.
Will it sue me for libel?
Am I being frightful?
I think it's delightful that this poem
has no title.
Maybe, what I should have titled this poem, was
"Poet being idle".
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 4:33 PM UTC
When he is hundreds of miles away
When he is right in front of you
When he forgets to talk to you
When he simply says hi
When he kisses another girl
When he surfaces in your memory
When he encourages you to meet new people
When he wants to meet up again
When he has to go back
When he forgets you as days turn into years
When he speaks to you less than his family does
When he tells you he loves you
When he introduces you as his friend
When he introduces you as a girl he used to know
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
Reciting your enchanting beauty
My life swifts from river mode to sea
Where it is deeper and yet empty
Which drift/drives my life to agony
The wind of obsessity carries me
To a place I always dreamt to be
Placing my head in your lap I see;
A future where we could be happy
But gradually the dream gets over
As the obsessity wind gets slower
Revisiting the reality again
Introduces me to a familiar pain
The pain is not of losing you
You were not a reward to be won
But since now you're gone
I feel a friend is departing too
With shallow breath and watery eye
Trembling limps and left with a sigh
The heart beneath nearly die
The moment you said, goodbye...
I don't need drugs
To ruin my life
With an emotional outburst
Its hard to survive
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:17 PM UTC
Take a look at a flower that we adore
And observe this precious creation to the core.
Those tiny petals free themselves from the bud
And bend towards the ray of light
Workshipping sun to stay on sight
Though sunlight is absent at night.
Day by day this flower blooms
Revealing its beauty even in gloom
The production of honey sweet scent
Introduces us of its own patent
Attracting those diligent bees
Flirting with vibrant butterflies
To generously share its honey product
Cause life is all about giving without doubt!
A blooming flower; a genuine wonder
Asking us to thoroughly ponder
How significant its existence in nature
Teaching us not to stop hoping for the future
As this flower will not stop blooming
Until its growth has fully matured.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 11:07 PM UTC
Feeling wanted could be evidence of friends
Until their loyalty is finished taunting
Knowing family is what introduces hope
Hope is what tempts someone to trust
the mystery of friendships will always stand in grey
The taste of rejection is putrid and sour
The aftertaste is bitter and lasting
The death of a friendship pierces even the numbest hearts
Lukewarm friends will never last
Never stay true or care to look from your vantage point
Fed up friendships destroy all innocence
The scars still have a pulse when I'm around them
Chaos has no place in this lyric, but it is here
Fighting for freedom like the carrot on the stick
If no one's caring enough let's get this over with
Maybe all the smoke that follows them will be a warning
Maybe these raw wounds will destroy and repeated mistakes
Friendships are Loyal, Trustworthy, and ready to compromise
NOT disposable
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
Trapped within this heat there’s an
Ocean of thoughts defeating me.
Suicide has come and gone even death
Is confused. I am awake yet the whole
Of ikasi is half-asleep.
Conflict between races: black, white, yellow,
I mix these colors and get red for bloodshed
Bombarding my mind as I choose my artillery:
Butcher’s knife or bread knife? Mxm **** it, I opt to
Load my machine gun as I take no prisoners.
I live only by one rule “spare not the feelings of those
Who have none.”
As my stu-stu-stu-stuttering riffle goes “tat’ i cover lova,”
They blaze to bushes with rampaging speed and seeing as my weight
Constitutes a majority of ten, I choose to be democratic and side with its
Vote, by not running but instead sending a hail of bullets.
Voetsek, Voetsek and Voetsek I say!!
As dusk breaks into dawn I am shattered into reality as prison introduces me to myself. I started shaking like the last shivering leaf on a dying tree and came to realize: The person whom I slaughtered was not only my neighbor, but was also my brother and if I have to suffer for my brother whom they call ikwerekere to survive, then I say “give me pain till I die!”.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
A tiny man walks in the class,
And says, "Hello".
A crowd of staring college kids,
Say "Think its time to go".
"there is no class today,
loads of time to sleep".
Then in comes, Mr. Shrivastava and says
"Guys why do you leave?"
"This is your new faculty,
he will be taking your class.
Be on time from tomorrow,
or from your grades you part".
A look of shock crosses the face,
No one speaks a word.
Trying to let the fact sink in,
And someone in the back says:
"He is weird".
He comes and introduces himself,
Asks our names too.
Out of the thirty six,
how many he remembers,
is a question though.
And on with the class he goes,
Showing pictures on the screen.
Showing logos and *** hole ads,
Untill a hairy scene.
A boy interrupts and asks:
"Whats the meaning of this?"
Wham! goes the teachers heart,
He was not expecting this!
So, he thinks about it for a moment,
no wanting to appear a fool.
Sure he must have taken then pictures from somewhere,
And was acting ****** cool.
He gave us topics,
And shooed us away, saying...
"Lets meet on tuesday!"
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 1:08 PM UTC
I’m at the acorn, a coffee shop, trying to write a poem but my mind is blank. I got here early enough to get one of the comfy chairs - yeah, I’m a self-indulgent monster - and I’m not getting up until my having to *** becomes a medical emergency.
What rhymes with blank.. Spank? THAT would take this poem in a WHOLE new direction - maybe it needs a new direction. Why does coffee that comes with latte-art, which costs 20 times more than what you can have in your dorm room, taste so much better?
A “Hi,” reveals a man standing in front of me, looking down and smiling - I assume he’s smiling because we’re all masked. I look up, blinking, and give him a questioning look and a head tilt - because we are masked. People at tables and chairs near us look up from their zoo of electronic devices to give us the onceover. There’s a keenness to him that makes me want him to go away and I begin to feel a nagging trepidation.
“Apparently I didn’t make much of an impression,” he says. He’s right and frankly, I’m thinking we should keep it that way. “We met at the Pundits party a couple of weeks ago?” He says, the inflection of his whole sentence rising, like a question.
Some background…
To her friends, Lisa being gorgeous is everyday and unremarkable, but take her out somewhere and she draws all eyes, like you drove up in a growling, fluorescent red Ferrari. She’s invited everywhere (she calls them “shiny ornament” invites) and one afternoon, as we’re coming back to the dorm a girl comes up to us - to her - hands her a ½ slip of paper and strikes up a conversation.
She introduces herself and runs through the usual, “What year are you in, where ya from.. bla bla. Then she asks, “Would you ever consider attending a naked party - have you heard of them?” To my surprise, Lisa smiles, brushes the hair out of her face and says, “I’d think about it,” which makes me laugh nervously, “You would?” I interrupt. The girl says that the paper is an open invitation from “The Pundits”, and that there’s a URL on it with details. “Just bring the slip,” she says, touching the paper in Lisa’s hand.
Guess where I “met” this guy? In an instant, I’m tense, and if I were a fox, I’d gnaw-off my paw to get out of there.
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 7:52 AM UTC
perhaps I was twenty-six
she looked me over and soon enough
the walk to her place was zip, zap, zoop;
meaning, although the barman called
me over to tell me she had recently stabbed
or had tried to stab a bartender from
down the street,
my only concern was another mandrax, a
joint of kashmir hashish with thick ***** streaks
and, most certainly, a new escape; a new woman
the floor (a penthouse apartment, mind you):
much water from an overflowing sink...then, there's
the layer of dust on the dishes of the dish rack...and, not
to forget, the four or five
frightening knives, all very reachable
then, she introduces me to her first
jumping up and down episode--hollering,
"you're my father! I must **** you!"
how I spent two or was it three days with
her dumbfounds me these days...the fool, me,
I remember, first turned off the water
and mopped dry the floor...the miracle of
how my hand awoke and grabbed her wrist,
with the blade's tip an inch from my heart,
will have to wait another session with Harmony
--that She may reach into my mind and
pull out a more clear version of the epilogue
of this is-it-a-poem which I've written
in numerous other versions over the years
~~
..(C)2011/2012 Spiros Zafiris
..channeled; spirit Harmony; reaching into the poet's heart
~~
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:10 AM UTC
I placed my bread to heat for just five seconds--
behold: when I came for it, it wasn't alone.
A mayfly had set up camp (so to speak)
with my wheat bread, my most favored
Amish-baked, sliced-before-my-own eyes bread;
and when I say it "set up camp," I do not
mean anything pleasant. I do mean six thin legs
sprawled long and broken when discovered
and perhaps some melted insides; who's to say?
Something turned inside of me and I'm certain
I grimaced at least a little, and took my plate back,
thinking, disturbed just slightly. How had I not
seen the fly? It couldn't have touched the bread--poor thing--
just rested there, unknowing, to be slaughtered.
*"Mom...Mom...Ahh, uhh, Mom! Mom?"
(mother assesses circumstances, unceremoniously takes a napkin
to my victim, and introduces his corpse to the garbage)
"He probably wasn't in there when I...right?"
--"It probably was."
"But five seconds couldn't have killed him."
I know I am wrong
as I feel the warm grains of my prize.
(mother gives a long look and says...)
--"If it heated the bread, I'm sure it heated the bug."*
I took my bounty anyway--the bread, that is, mind you--
and went to eat it absentmindedly, but found that
now impossible. Sigh. I also found myself
staring, long and hard, then, at half of a piece
of glorious, Heaven-breathed wheat bread,
and suddenly realized that I could not discern
whether or not I was enjoying it. ******
And then I tried to reassure myself by chiding
inwardly, "You're just afraid of insects
irrationally," but maybe I actually
felt that the blood of an
innocent life was on
my hands.
*Why are they so stupid? I ask
no one really, fighting revulsion,
grasping for blame.*
Alas, I finished eating but felt rightly robbed
of some essential part of the experience.
Yet, such is life.
Mar 16, 2012
Mar 16, 2012 at 8:36 PM UTC
I couldn’t have no bunch ‘a “Baby-Daddies” hanging around my life
Jugglin’ ‘em- and tryin’ a keep track of
What each was supposed to do for his
And when
And how
And how much
Naw…that ain’t my style
~
I’m the lady that he introduces to other ladies in his life
I’m the lady that he takes to dinner with his mama
I’m the lady who
Can stand up under his friend-girl’s scrutiny and
Bear the weight of his auntie’s infamous stare
I got
Way too much class to have too many babies
With too many different daddies
Right?
You understand what I mean…
~
So when I looked up
And I had ****** up
And was knocked up
By another woman’s husband…
(With my classy self)
Well… that just would not do at all
I mean I may be
PRO-Choice
But in truth
I had
NO choice
Right?
You understand what I mean…?
~
Hell,
Too many kids and girl might
Fool around and end up a “pogo stick”
And I ain’t no **** pogo stick…
You know…
“Fun to bounce around on-
But no self-respecting grown man
Will be seen in public with one…”
I had NO choice…
Right?
~
It wadn’t so bad…
Once I got past the
Nightmares of vacuums and clogged ******* sounds and the pain in my guts
and the bleedin’ ‘til I chafed and the crying ‘til I puked and the sore leaking ******* and the
Hole in my soul…
It wadn’t so bad…
~
And it had to be done
Right?
~
Besides, I lived through it…
And in the end- it’s all about ME
You understand what I mean…
You hear what I’m screamin’?
You hear
What
AAAAHM SCREEEAAAMING!!!?
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
I meet a woman in the story
I introduce myself as a writer
She introduces herself as the character I write about
She's so smart
I really like smart people
She tells about her life
She is happy to share every experience
She's so beautiful
She doesn't like the word beauty
Beauty only makes things that come to be gone
I understand it
I agree with her opinion
In the first paragraph, I introduce myself
In that paragraph, she also invites me to enter her world
I write about her
She accepts my writing
I write all about her
She reads herself
I continue to write the second paragraph
She says I need to stop
I ask, why?
She says she is tired
I ask her to rest
She agrees
I'm writing again
And I realize
She's just my imagination
I miss her so much
I've never done this before
And I go back to write about her
But I can no longer find her
She is no longer in my writing
I think too much about her
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 4:19 PM UTC
There’s a girl with a purple complexion,
Black eyes and stark white pupils.
Blue and white feathers atop her head.
She resides in the dimension within brown sky
In which the teal galaxy collapses star by star.
It unravels, atom by atom, forcibly ripped apart.
By a creator so elusive even the dead are ignorant.
The puppeteer left Pinocchio to rot and decay.
Salt water travels down his wood-carved face.
The girl cries along with the soulless rib of tree.
She introduces Lord Pathos to his hard knock heart.
“Neither ethos, nor pathos can decipher this knot.”
Only father time has the power to dismantle the rope.
Her fingers grow weak, maneuver until they break.
Time arrives late; the moss and fungus return home.
There is nothing less tragic; than the death of a puppet.
May 5, 2011
May 5, 2011 at 3:02 PM UTC
i live in a brightness
of worlds
paper-thin
a screenshot of
malleability
introduces my reckoning
today, the serpent
lays hold of
the egg
and starvation
is kept at bay
belly full
cut the cord
the descendants
hang heavy
all my life i've wanted
a reason to
die well
tonight, I hear it
in the sirens...
I hear it
in the coyotes...
I hear it
in my soul...
tonight, I hear it
in plain sight--
as clear
as a daisy
i was allowed
to slow down
to see my life
in a different gear
to venture a guess
towards life in payment
of a different path
i was
hungry
and hung-up
i was held-up
with my pants
down
i was a man
living his life
in the modern
mouse-trap
and nobody
cares about the
man in the
modern
mouse-trap
forget about the
cheese...
find your
own way
out
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 10:06 PM UTC
dear little me,
you’re taught that if a boy is mean to you, he likes you. you watch all these movies and read all these books about jerks and scumbags who fall for good girls and subsequently ‘act right’ for them, and only them. you think this will happen to you. please don’t date the ‘bad’ boys.
no, the boy of your dreams is a suburban drummer with hair the color of the earth, and the kind of laugh that makes you smile, even if you’re trying as hard as you can to be mad at him (which you never really are).
you listen to him. everything he has to say, you listen. even if you heard it all before, you listen, because nothing makes you happier than the sound of his voice when he’s talking about something that interests him, or how his day went, or something that made him laugh. and he listens to you. everything you say, no matter how dumb it is, or how much you stumble over your words, or ramble on about things that aren’t very interesting, he listens, and he doesn’t think you’re stupid, and he doesn’t think you’re annoying, and he never ignores you. ever.
he introduces you to his parents on valentine’s day, and doesn’t make you feel like you owe him anything. he buys you that bear you hinted at wanting the week before, which you end up sleeping with every night, and aren’t even ashamed to admit.
he naps with you, which you’ve always dreamed of doing with a boyfriend, because, let’s face it: you’re boring, and you sleep more than a sloth. he’s a heavy sleeper, which makes you laugh, and you poke him or rest your head on his chest or whisper things to or about him while he sleeps because he won’t know about it anyway.
he gets you out of the house. even though all you ever want to do is lie in bed and sleep, or watch netflix and drive yourself insane from isolating yourself so much, he gets you out of the house. he gets you interested in things you convinced yourself a long time ago not to try. he shows you things you never had the energy to look for.
sometimes, you’ll find yourself scared, because your anxiety woke you up and told you that he doesn’t like you anymore, or that you’re annoying him, or that he’s leaving, and you ask him, almost every day, ‘do you still like me’, and he never seems bothered by this, even though you swear he is, and he always says ‘yes’, and you always smile and you'll find life a little less heavy.
even if, for one reason or another, the two of you don’t last forever, know that this is one of the happiest times of your life, and that you were okay, which is all the two of us ever wanted. you’ll still date those boys who hurt your feelings and make you feel small.
you and i both know that you can’t resist the temptation to see if the books and movies are true, though, and you’ll end up sad. you’ll ***** up. you’ll mistreat the people who care about you, and you’ll hate yourself, for a little while, but, the boy of your dreams will be there. he always was. that’s the boy you give your time and attention to; that’s the boy you choose: the boy who saw you at your lowest, and still chose you.
sincerely,
bigger you
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
A man of glue
When a conversation is due
assures noone is blue
As he is the man of glue
A man of glue, or glue guy is you rather
To him you are not some other
Instead you are just another
Friendly, interesting and unique brother
A man of glue, who introduces the world of poetry
And can write poems about glue that the world has never seen
He's introduced people such as me
To poetry deserving of making history
The man of glue, though he is unusual
Will change your dull life, and give it renewal
One minute he's talking about anime, the next steel beams and jet fuel
He's is known by many other titles, though not as memorable as the man in glue
Perhaps one day he will realise, and read this poem
From a person who knows him
Will he know that it's me?
Let's just wait and see
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
Can you settle for more or less if today was your last day
And what would be your retort if you were denied another chance?
How life introduces sobriety and the impending inevitability
The interstice and it’s ingress that encloses before your eyes
The demanding pouring of importune time
That soothing allaying sighs that evoke incalculable alleviation
If someone were to impart as they closed their eyes
As they died with a commital of happenings with not enough time
As to burden you with the impression of only one chance
It would seem and with the impending inevitability
Of your death which would subito compromise the day
A bearding contrivance plight of obligations engagement and commital no alleviation
An abecedarian dossier concealed for a long time
All this time the inevitable coinciding incident only for your eyes
The emotional habituation was of quotidian rendition each day
Of how trivial things take us on a dance with only one life one chance
With your attention and awareness on the answer the inevitability
Of what you are becoming with each passing second for each
Thought which transpires and no alleviation
Is there an epoch a replicating limn a depiction of our linear time
As we perpetrate and pursue progressively for our alleviation
Engaged to staying the course the day
Stirring closing in on our deliberate objective determined chance
Which remained for a terse duration from the inevitability
In which at the atrium of this erstwhile portage of a duvet to belabor
To stifle firsthand with your eyes
The variant from this domicile from this residence on a day
Is the vagabond to perish in yonder with no alleviation
Once man was a brute dullard or a curmudgeon spinster at a time
Which offers a mute disconnection ragged miscreant the inevi
Naivety or absent mindedness to somnambulist and its silhouette
Notwithstanding change
The quagmire and it’s nightmare the ingrate delighted with coined
Shunned eyes
Reputation with a flagrant obscene defilement galvanizing
The alleviation
At the heart of this lies another chance
A precocious inevitability
A man who lies to die another day
The annihilation in desperate want for from those argent eyes
To the starving newfangled optimism which in its sheen
Shines sunshine dulling the ocular orbs of time
Forwithal in befuddlement remain here
The time if infringement to comprehend the volatile vertigo
And the inevitability
The harrowing of hell
Glance at the shinning suns in her eyes intention considers change
After you heal and left are the cicatrix
Will you plunge further for alleviation
Or on the intent of regression once again
From long ago to another distant day.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC